Monday morning

6 March 2017

— “I always wanted to be somebody, but now I realize I should have been more specific.” Lily Tomlin.

Good Morning All,

It’s early days yet, but I am beginning to suspect March may be Inanimate-Objects-Take-Revenge-on-Old-People Month. Before I turned 70, most inanimate objects, with the notable exceptions of my keys and my glasses, were reasonably cooperative. Forest stones did not wantonly sneak out onto the path to trip me up. Pens did not jump into and hide in shirt pockets just before I put the shirts into the washing machine. My bicycle seat nut never came loose so that I suddenly slid forward and was for the next ten minutes capable of singing Rejoice Greatly from the Messiah. My front door never blew shut and locked itself moments after I’d slipped out in the pre-dawn in my underpants to put a bag in the trash. Before I was 70, my mobile phone did, okay, slip out of my hands once or twice, but on neither occasion did it bounce off the bathroom mirror, circle the sink twice and shoot up out of it to perform a triple gainer into the toilet.

Inanimate objects, I think, showed me more respect when I was younger. They recognized I was still a functioning and useful member of society, still relatively vigorous, and still in possession of a five-pound hammer, which—though itself an inanimate object—always seemed eager to do my bidding.

No longer. Take my trousers, just for one example. As a kid, I could--and did a dozen times--put my trousers on two legs at a time. Now, since I steadfastly refuse to sit down on the edge of the bed, putting them on one leg at a time is a challenge. Basically, I bend my creaking back, extend my arms, and lower my trousers as far as possible, steady them, count to three, say to them, “Oh, look what’s out the window!”, and then lift my right leg just enough to step into them. But they are on to this ruse and are almost always too damn quick for me, shifting left or right, back or forward, just enough so that my leg comes down in front of them, or sort of kicks them in their back pockets. Sometimes, if I step on the belt, for example, and do not have sense enough to ket go, I can end up in a genuflecting position. If we now throw my sudden dizzy spells into the equation, you will understand how I can on a bad day tip over and end up with my head in the wastepaper basket or out in the hallway. 

On a good day, I usually get it right on the third or fourth attempt, but even then my foot does not slide with dolphin-like ease down and out through the cuff. More often than not, my toes get hung up on the pocket or the zipper, or—and worse—my foot gets stuck sideways just below the knee. It, namely my foot, which—after all--is an actual animate object, although now in cahoots with my inanimate pants, refuses to go up or down, so that I usually end up sitting on my ass on the carpet, poking at my foot with my longer shoe horn. The only alternative I can think of is calling emergency services, if I could remember where I’d left my iPhone, and then suffer the ignominy of hearing whoever answered whispering to his partner, “Yeah, it’s that trouser guy again.” And his partner replying, “Oh, yeah, the same guy crouching behind the rose bushes in his jockey shorts."

I can see I have only just barely scratched the surface of this topic, so I had better stop here.

Go Well and Stay Well,

Bhekaron